Fool's Errand (12 page)

“Exactly,” said Azriel with satisfaction. “In a moment, you, Rachel, Mateo and I will begin riding hard toward the Gypsy camp. The other four groups will also begin riding hard, each in a different direction. The Regent is almost certainly having us followed, you see, and I intend to give his dogs the slip.”

Instead of applauding Azriel's cleverness (as he rather appeared to expect her to do) Persephone gaped at him in horror. “And you thought that the best way to give his dogs the slip would be to use these people as
decoys?”
she exclaimed. “Azriel, have you even
considered
what is going to happen to them if—or, more likely,
when
—they get caught? The Regent despises lowborns almost as much as he despises Gypsies, and I am quite certain that his soldiers will not appreciate being played for—”

“Princess?” murmured a voice at her other side.

“What?”
she cried, whipping her head around.

The man was on one knee, hand over his heart. “All those you see before you knew the risks before we set out,” he said with quiet dignity. “It would be wrong to look upon us as decoys, Your Highness, for in truth we are soldiers in your service. And while we are touched and humbled by your concern for our well-being, I assure you it is not necessary. Though Azriel has not told us the purpose of the journey that lies before you, he has assured us that it is for the good of the realm and for the promise of better days to come for all people. To play even a small role in the pursuit of such lofty ambitions is more than most of low birth could ever dream of. And that is why, even if Azriel had not given each of us gold enough to ensure that our families would hereafter be well provided for, there is not one among us who'd not have volunteered for this mission.”

Just as he finished speaking, a blinding ray of sunlight burst over the horizon, heralding the arrival of dawn. Persephone blinked into the glory before looking back down into the face of the kneeling man at her side. She knew that to protest anything he'd said would be to insult him and all those who were about to risk their lives for her. Not for the first time, she thought that being a princess was going to be far more difficult than being a slave had ever been.

Reaching out, she laid a tentative hand upon the man's hooded head and said, “Then let me thank you for the service you will do for me this day and promise that it shall never be forgotten.”

As the man bowed his head in gratitude and reverence, a screech from high overhead brought a smile to Persephone's lips. Squinting up into the early morning sky she beheld Ivan, the proud and fearless hawk who'd followed her halfway across the realm, ever escaping those who sought to master him—the hawk who chose that particular moment to deliver an excessively large splatter of droppings to the top of Azriel's head.

At the sight of Azriel hopping about in disgust while hawk shit dripped down the sides of his hood like the contents of a cracked egg, the men, women and boys of the escort could not contain their hilarity. Rachel bowed her head to hide the mirth in her eyes, and Mateo laughed aloud for the first time since being rescued.

Somewhere nearby, Cur started barking.

“Azriel, if it is any comfort at all, I believe that deep down inside, Ivan is filled with remorse for what he just did,” confided Persephone.

“Even if that were true, it would be no comfort at all!” huffed Azriel, grimacing as he accidentally smeared his fingers while trying to clean off his hood.

Taking a step backward so that he would not accidentally smear
her
, Persephone said, “Well, at least we'll always be able to cherish the thought that whatever befalls these brave soldiers in my service, we parted in merry spirits.”

“Humph!” was the only reply.

ELEVEN

M
ORDECAI LAY BACK
in the finely upholstered leather chair and closed his eyes.

“Proceed,” he ordered.

“Yes, Your Grace,” whispered the terrified barber.

With infinite care, the stoop-shouldered man leaned forward and laid the straight blade against Mordecai's well-soaped cheek. He was the third member of his craft to tend to Mordecai in recent months, the first two having lost fingers as punishment for having allowed the blade to slip and mar the Regent's perfect complexion.

As he listened to the rasping sound the blade made as it scraped his cheek clean, Mordecai sighed deeply. Yesterday, after bidding the princess farewell, he'd ridden back to the imperial palace to await the return of the king that he might explain to him the way things now stood. Unfortunately, some interfering servant reached the fool first with the news that no one had seen his nursemaid Moira since the night before last. This had greatly alarmed the king, for he'd been under the impression that she'd been absent from her duties because of illness. After publicly berating himself for not having visited her sickbed personally—even though any imbecile could have told him that it would have been irresponsible for him, a sickly king without a named heir, to knowingly expose himself to sickness—he'd immediately cancelled or postponed all business and festivities, and ordered that a search be undertaken.

Eager to tell the peasant-hearted fool what fate had
really
befallen the woman who'd ever treated Mordecai with such an appalling lack of respect, the Regent had proceeded to the king's chambers. He'd arrived only to find his way barred by one of the few guards in the imperial palace who'd been personally appointed by the king. Nervously, the young man had informed Mordecai that Lord Bartok had been put in charge of the search for the nursemaid and that the king had left orders that he wished to see no one unless the visitor had news of her whereabouts.

Mordecai's initial reaction had been to have the guard cut down where he stood, but as he'd opened his mouth to bark the order to the other guard—one of the many New Men who'd been appointed by Mordecai and were loyal to him alone—it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps the agony of knowing what had happened to his nursemaid could be surpassed only by the agony of
not
knowing what had happened to her.

Indeed, if King Finnius had not sent word late the previous evening that he intended to proceed this day with the ceremony that would see the power to rule the realm officially transferred to him, Mordecai might have been content to let the ingrate stew in his own juices for some time to come.

But alas, he
had
sent word and so—regrettably—Mordecai was going to have to put an end to the sweet torture of not knowing.

As Mordecai mentally rehearsed how he planned to break the news to the king, the trembling barber wiped Mordecai's face with a lavender-scented towel, gingerly massaged a small dollop of reddish salve into his skin and held up a hand mirror so that the Regent could inspect the job he'd done.

“Hold the mirror steady, or I will have your hand removed,” said Mordecai absently. Turning his head from side to side, he marvelled at how handsome he still was and how wonderfully smooth and youthful looking his skin was.

The barber had done a magnificent job.

“You missed a spot,” muttered Mordecai as he shoved the hand mirror away and awkwardly hauled himself up off the reclining chair.

At these words of dissatisfaction, the barber's eyes bulged. “Apologies, Your Grace!” he blubbered, falling to his knees.

Mordecai looked down his perfect nose at the man, despising him for his terror and wondering whether a close shave was worth letting such a pathetic wretch keep all his fingers.

At length he decided that it was—for now.

“Don't let it happen again,” he said sourly. “Get out.”

After the barber had fled, Mordecai looked at his reflection in the mirror one last time before departing himself. As he slouched through the corridors of the palace toward the king's chambers, he made careful note of all those who looked upon him with anything other than respect or fear. The stares of those who thought he was finished had made him uneasy the night Lady Bothwell had been revealed to be the king's twin, but they no longer did. Though he'd never been one to play peasant games of chance, it was an indisputable fact that he now held all the cards.

“Stand aside,” he commanded the same young guard who'd barred his way the previous day.

Once again, the young man assumed the look of a cornered rabbit. With a darting glance at his fellow guard—who was studiously looking in the opposite direction—he cried, “Would that I could, Your Grace, but I fear that I cannot, for it is His Majesty's order that none but those having news of the nursemaid Moira's whereabouts should pass!”

“I have news,” said Mordecai, mentally adding the rabbit to the long list of those who would someday pay for having offended him.

“Oh,”
said the young guard, heaving a great sigh of relief. “Well, in that case, I'll announce you at once.”

“That won't be necessary,” said Mordecai. “I'll announce myself.”

For a moment, it looked as though the imbecile might actually insist upon following protocol. Then—as though suddenly realizing that to do so would be suicide—he reluctantly stepped aside.

How unfortunate for him that his change of heart will not save him from being racked until his long, strong limbs pop from their sockets and he screams for his mother
, thought Mordecai as he shuffled into the king's inner chamber.

The door had barely shut behind him when the king was upon him.

“You've found Moira?” he exclaimed.

“After a fashion,” replied Mordecai carelessly.

“What do you mean ‘after a fashion'?” demanded Finn, forgetting to turn his head or cover his mouth as he coughed. “Have you found her or not? Is she all right? Tell me what you know!”

Instead of answering the distraught young king, Mordecai pushed past him. Lurching over to the long, gleaming table that dominated the room, he plucked a golden pear from the fruit bowl that sat in the middle of the table and, after inspecting it carefully for bruises, took a large bite. As he noisily munched away, he casually made his way up to the head of the table and eased himself down into the chair in which the king himself always sat when dining in private.

King Finnius watched all this with his mouth hanging open, too amazed to be indignant.

At last, when Mordecai was comfortably settled in the king's own chair, he waved the pear at the still-speechless monarch and said, “Majesty, the night we discovered that Lady Bothwell was actually your long-lost sister, do you recall me saying that you might be surprised by all that the following days would bring? And do you recall replying that you have always liked surprises?”

“Yes,” said the king in a guarded voice.

Leaning forward, Mordecai smiled broadly. “Well … surprise, Your Majesty!” he sang. “I have had your nursemaid imprisoned within my dungeon, in a cell so well hidden that none but I know the location of it.”

“WHAT?”

“It is true,” beamed Mordecai, taking another bite of the pear. “What's more, I have sent my most trusted general, Murdock, to follow the princess and the cockroach. He has orders to execute them instantly if he hears even the vaguest rumour that would suggest that my plans have not unfolded exactly as I intended. Oh, and I've also stationed battalions of my vast personal army of New Men throughout the realm and dispatched orders that if those in command do not hear from me at regular intervals, they are to begin slaughtering your lowborn subjects, starting with the women and children since they are the most useless.”

Blue eyes flashing, Finn opened his mouth—“

I would not call for the guards if I were you, Your Majesty,” advised Mordecai, who was enjoying himself immensely. “For one thing, they are almost all loyal to me, and for another thing, did you not hear what I just said? Everyone and everything you hold dear is within my power. And the real beauty of the situation is that you cannot harm me without putting them all in mortal peril. For you see if anything should happen to me—or indeed, if I should simply find myself so displeased by your behaviour that I am incapable of visiting the dungeon or communicating with my minions—your insufferable nursemaid will starve alone in the darkness, your sister's pretty head will be parted from her ripe young body, and untold numbers of your weakest, most helpless subjects will be butchered without mercy.”

Though King Finnius had grown deathly pale by this point, his voice was steady when he said, “Your Grace, why have you done these terrible things?”

Mordecai shook his heavy head. “Really, Majesty, you insult yourself by asking a question to which you already know the answer,” he chided.

“You do not wish to give up the power to rule the realm,” coughed Finn.

“I don't—but I will,” lied Mordecai, who thought it prudent to sweeten his threats with the honey of hope, “if and when the princess and the Gypsy return with proof that they have discovered the location of the healing Pool of Genezing.”